


you, a moon to my sea

by jamesstruttingpotter



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Firefly Setting, F/M, Space au!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24608119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesstruttingpotter/pseuds/jamesstruttingpotter
Summary: “So we’re gonna spend five days on a haul that’s going to get us three days of fuel, at best?” Bellamy says.“If this were a normal job, I’d agree with that math,” Jasper says, and Clarke’s gotta give him credit for not quailing under Bellamy’s stare. “But this is for the governor of Neptune VI, who’s willing to pay double per crate. He’s got some fancy party happening that he wants real liquor for.”“So, to summarize,” Clarke says, “we’re wasting five days on a haul that’s going to get us six days of fuel?”
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 12
Kudos: 64





	you, a moon to my sea

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be funny and lighthearted with no plot at all, and then a little stuff happened because these characters are too serious for their own good. You probably don't need to have any familiarity with Firefly to read this, but if you haven't watched it, PLEASE do because it's incredible.
> 
> There's some descriptions of violence in here, but nothing worse than the show. Please read with caution!

“Okay,” Bellamy says, and his voice is stretched thin between exasperation and patience. “Whose idea was this job?”

There’s a little shuffling around as the crew looks sideways at each other before Monty and Jasper finally raise their hands.

Clarke pinches the bridge of her nose. “Should’ve known,” she mutters, before Miller pries the lid off the final crate. 

“Yeah, they’re all moonshine,” he reports, and if she didn’t know him better she’d miss the amused shape of his mouth. 

“So we’re gonna spend five days on a haul that’s going to get us three days of fuel, at best?” Bellamy says. 

“If this were a normal job, I’d agree with that math,” Jasper says, and Clarke’s gotta give him credit for not quailing under Bellamy’s stare. “But this is for the governor of Neptune VI, who’s willing to pay double per crate. He’s got some fancy party happening that he wants real liquor for.”

“So, to summarize,” Clarke says, “we’re wasting five days on a haul that’s going to get us  _ six  _ days of fuel?”

This time, Jasper does flinch. “And maybe some more contacts?” he offers, and Bellamy looks about a split second away from going  _ rebel without a cause _ again and shooting up their cargo hold. 

“Just… plot a course to the damn planet,” he says instead, and stomps his way up to his quarters.

Raven, still splattered in engine grease, raises a single eyebrow at Clarke. “Is it just me, or has Blake gone soft?”

*

As an apology, or maybe just to celebrate a good micro-harvest, Monty’s plated up his best patch of radishes from the botany bay for dinner. Protein rations are almost palatable with fresh greens, and even Bellamy’s stormy expression abates a little through the meal. 

“I’ve figured out a good path to Neptune VI,” Octavia says, once plates are mostly empty, and the wheedling tone she’s already using has Clarke wary.

“Please tell me it doesn’t cut through Alliance territory,” she says, and Octavia’s brows draw together.

“Just a little corner,” she replies, chin jutting out, and her brother rubs a hand down his face. “Bell, come on, it’d be half a day at worst. And it’s not like it’s TonDC, it’d be literally the outskirts of the solar system. It’d cut a day off our transit time, which means more profit.”

“I’d rather lose the day than get caught and executed,” he mutters darkly. “It’s tempting fate, O.”

“You think that the Arkadian police are savvy enough to catch us?” Octavia scoffs. “Miller and I can handle it.”

“The  _ Dropship’ _ s on wanted posters throughout the galaxy, including the Arkadian system,” Clarke reminds her. “Any police cruiser that happens to be passing by would be obliged to follow us.”   
“Yeah, but it’s Arkadia,” says Monty. His voice has gone soft around the edges. “You really think they’d try hard to capture us?”

Somewhat unwillingly, she finds herself remembering Arkadia-that-was, how things had been before the Alliance had demanded fealty. The sky is always blue in her memory. She’s always holding a paintbrush, and her father is always nearby. 

“They chose the Alliance, and we didn’t,” she says, and her voice is flat. “Just because it’s our home planet doesn’t mean they’ll go easy on us.”

“Fine,” says Raven, and her no-nonsense tone snaps everyone out of a potentially somber mood. “Maybe they won’t, but I’ve been saying we need a new compression coil for weeks. If we can get an extra day’s worth of money by cutting through the outskirts of Arkadia, I say we do it.”

“Is a compression coil really worth the risk of execution?” says Bellamy.

“If we go without the coil, it’s death by lack of oxygen,” replies Raven, and Jasper winces so hard some tea dribbles out of his mouth.

“Passing through the old neighborhood is starting to sound really good,” he says, swallowing.

“We did just upgrade our blaster capabilities,” Miller says, pushing a stray radish around his plate. 

“The governor might even pay us more if we get the cargo to him earlier,” says Monty, still tentative.

Clarke meets Bellamy’s gaze from across the long table, where he sits at the foot to her head. His pistol’s trapped between the thick wood and his palm, next to his water glass; she watches him grip it tightly, then release, one finger at a time. “It’d cut off a whole day?” he asks, eyes still locked on hers.

“Yeah, we’d avoid circling around Regina.”

He tilts his head, infinitesimal.  _ Your move, Princess _ , it says, and Clarke exhales, loud. “Fine,” she relents. “But we’re staying in stealth mode the whole time.”

“Aww, but Arkadia has the best radio stations,” Jasper says, and Bellamy finally looks away from her to cuff him round the head.

Later, once the crew’s cleaned up the mess hall and scuttled off to God knows where, Clarke sets her quarters’ light strips to dim and pulls out a novel she’s filched from Miller. She only has to wait a few minutes before her door creaks open, a dark hallway yawning wide and quiet behind Bellamy’s back as he gives her an appraising look.

“I still think it’s unfair there’s only one captain’s quarters.”

She shrugs. “Take it up with the design team.”

“I barely have enough room for my mattress and you have a whole desk in here.”

“Maybe you’d be able to fit in more furniture if you didn’t have every spare surface littered with books.”

He snorts and comes in to rest on the edge of her bed, ankles crossed in front of him. “So, what do you think?” he asks, and she leans back in her chair.

“I mean, the job’s barely worth it,” she says, to a grumble of agreement. “But it’s been so long since we’ve had one, and I think everyone was getting restless. You too,” she adds. “If this is what it takes for us to feel like we have a purpose again, then…”

“Well, I still don’t like it,” he says, and she rolls her eyes. “But you’re right. And Raven  _ has  _ been getting on our backs about that compression coil lately.”

A few beats of companionable silence pass, after which Bellamy shifts a little on his perch, shoulders hunching slightly. “You, uh - you think the Council would actually arrest us?”

It’s a question very few people would know to ask her, and she’d tolerate it from even fewer. But this is Bellamy asking on behalf of their crew’s safety, so she swallows the sharp knot of pride in her throat to give it due consideration.

“I think,” she says slowly, “that my mom might still be looking to prove she’s on the side of law and order. Maybe even enough to do it.”

He nods. “Then we’ve got to make sure we’re not caught,” he says, grim.

She reaches across the tiny space to shove his shoulder, easy. “I’d hope that’s always the plan,” she tells him, and he gives her a reluctant grin that sets her heart racing.

*

(To be fair, it was never the plan to fall in love with her co-captain. At the beginning, it hadn’t even been within the realm of possibility. There had been a war to fight, a fucking brutal one, too, and Bellamy Blake had been just another name in the sea of faces that were sent out to fight the Independents and ended up fighting for them instead. Clarke, scraped raw from the assassination of her father and determined to make a name for herself in the rebellion against her mother, had been furious at the sudden intrusion of this boy, barely a few years older than her and easily shouldering the responsibilities she had felt were crushing her. 

Then Wells had died, and Thelonious had gone insane, and far away, the Alliance had consolidated its chokehold on the central planets and looked to wipe out Arkadia’s Independents once and for all. It had been a mad rush to get the fuck out in the end, and after some skill, luck, and nearly all of Clarke’s inheritance, she’d found a Firefly class ship and loaded everyone she trusted onto it. Somehow Bellamy had made the cut.

Now, she watches him pass half his red bean buns to Octavia because she likes them best. He plots interstellar paths with Monty, pranks Miller with Raven, makes Jasper run laps for spilling coolant all over the engine room, and generally makes himself a loud, bossy, hardheaded nuisance on her ship. His hands are never still, and his hair is always on the wrong side of messy, but when she meets his gaze she recognizes the look in his eyes as the ironclad will to survive, no matter the cost, and it’s the same desperation she sees in the mirror every morning. She can’t imagine sailing through the depths of the ‘verse without him by her side, a rough grip and a steady hand, a man who has held her life in his palms and given her his to hold, too.

But, you know. Whatever. Cabin fever, and all that.)

*

It’s easy going until they start approaching Arkadian air space, after which everyone’s tense for about ten hours as Octavia goes as fast as she can without looking suspicious and Miller keeps one hand on their blaster controls. Clarke thinks the mood might’ve been uncharacteristically serious even without the imminent threat of death: it’s hard to keep a tight grip on the half-homesick, half-angry thoughts that inevitably come as she watches familiar moons and planets swirl by.

All in all, it’s a relief to finally slip back into non-Alliance space again, which is probably why their alarm signals start blaring not two hours later.

“Jesus Christ, just as I’m about to fall asleep,” snarls Bellamy as he swings into the cockpit, baggy sweatpants detracting significantly from his sense of authority. “What’s going on?”

“Besides your inability to properly clothe yourself? Not much,” replies Octavia, looking distinctly worse for the wear as she checks the nav systems. “Would you get out of the way? Your nipple’s about to poke my eye out.”

“Ship ahead, looks abandoned but we’re receiving a weak distress signal,” says Clarke, valiantly ignoring the display of perfectly toned abs as he passes  _ right by her _ , Jesus. A smirk from Miller as he slides into the room tells her she’s been less than successful.

“So what, we want to go check it out?”

_ “I vote no,”  _ says Raven’s voice through the comms, tinny. Distinct banging noises suggest she’s tinkering around the engine room.  _ “Don’t want to waste time on something that isn’t us getting our compression coil.” _

“What if there are people aboard?” asks Bellamy. The scowl on his face is slipping into half-wary concern. 

“I’m pretty sure it’s abandoned,” says Octavia. “Probably evacuated after broadcasting the signal.”

“We want to take that chance?”

_ “What part of dying from oxygen loss do you people not understand?” _

“How far away’s the ship?” asks Miller, leaning over Octavia’s shoulder to check the displays.

“Uh - we’d intercept in twenty.”

“So that’s twenty minutes to intercept, an hour or so to check it out, and another twenty to get the hell out of dodge,” says Bellamy, shooting a look over his shoulder at Clarke. 

She shrugs. “She says it’s abandoned, and we’re not in the habit of poking our nose into other people’s business.” 

It’s not a no. Bellamy runs a hand through his hair.

“Okay,” he says, and Raven is already groaning. “We’ll keep it quick. We saved a day already, two hours can’t hurt.”

“Bleeding heart,” Miller says, with no bite, and Bellamy shoves him before they go to suit up.

Clarke hates their space walking suits as much as she can hate anything about the  _ Dropship _ . They’re made of a clingy insulated fabric that makes her skin itch, and the airtight helmets make her uncomfortably aware of what the last thing she ate was. Also, Raven likes to call these their  _ away missions _ because she’s a nerd who’s watched Star Trek, which would be fine if it weren’t for her simultaneous habit of calling her Captain Clarke Blake of the U.S.S.  _ Dropship _ . Bellamy takes this with wry grace. Clarke… does not.

“Stay safe,” says Monty as she, Bellamy, and Miller troop into the exit chamber, because he’s the only actually nice person in their group. Raven has refused to come out of the engine room for this, but her voice is a disgruntled mumble in their ear as she coordinates their exit. Jasper closes the door behind them. Octavia brings the  _ Dropship  _ closer and closer to the foreign ship until Clarke can count the rivets on its hull. Then it’s a quick wave and the sound of pneumatic doors hissing open, and she’s floating.

“Entry to the left,” says Bellamy, unnaturally loud in her earpiece, and Clarke copies before propelling herself that way. Sure enough, an entry chamber hovers into view after a few seconds, and she listens to the steady ebb and flow of her breathing as she prepares to catch hold. There’s a ladder readily available, and she clambers up onto the top ledge before turning around to make sure her teammates have followed. Once the two of them look stable enough, she half-heartedly hits the  _ Enter _ button on the keypad next to the door, expecting to bring out Raven’s handy lock-picking gadget.

Instead, the door slides open soundlessly.

It’s too dark to catch the expressions on Bellamy or Miller’s faces, and the helmet glass is tinted besides, but she’s sure it’s the same wary look she’s wearing. Still, she hauls herself into the chamber, the other two close behind. Miller hesitates once they’re inside, hand hovering over the  _ Close door _ button.

“Still feeling good about this one?” he asks, looking between them, and Clarke bites her lip.

“The ship could be programmed for easy access after an emergency signal goes out, to receive help faster,” she says, and Bellamy gives a nod. Decontamination procedures immediately activate once the door’s closed behind them, and in no time at all, the door to the rest of the ship is opening.

“Air’s good,” says Bellamy, checking the small instrument sewn into his sleeve, and she disengages her helmet with a sigh of relief before setting it near the exit. She turns on the suit’s shoulder flashlight, which illuminates several feet of steel floor in fluorescent white ahead of her, before stepping out.

It looks like they’re in a massive loading bay, big enough to hold several small shuttles. It’s completely empty now, and completely dark. There’s no sign of life at all. The air’s cold enough to make her shiver, even with her insulated suit.

“Cockpit,” she says. “If there’s anyone left, they’ll be there.”

“Let’s stick together,” Bellamy says, and no one disagrees. 

The rooms one floor up are abandoned too, crew’s quarters that are mostly cleared out. What little furniture remains has been knocked over or destroyed. They pass a deserted mess hall, drawers pulled out completely and chairs overturned. 

“Anything we can salvage?” she asks, and Miller peers into a cupboard. 

“Empty,” he reports.

Bellamy’s kneeling by some pipes, a few feet away in the gloom. “Looks like a leak,” he says, before suddenly rearing back.

“What?” Clarke asks, heart pounding at the sudden movement.

He holds up his hand. The tips of his gloves are stained; it takes a second to register the color as deep crimson.

Miller casts his light toward that corner to reveal a large puddle. “What  _ happened  _ here?” he asks, and Bellamy shakes his head, mute.

“Cockpit,” Clarke repeats, nerves jangling, and they abandon the mess to climb another flight of stairs. The three of them by unspoken agreement take out their weapons as they reach the landing, Clarke’s pistol a reassuring weight in her hand. 

“It’ll be to the right,” says Miller when they approach a split corridor. She can see several open doors studding the walls, presumably leading to storage rooms. There’s a patch of starlight flooding in from a wide window to their right; everything beyond it is pitch black. “At the end of the hall. Let’s confirm there are no survivors and then get the hell out.”

“At the very least, we can listen to the black box,” says Bellamy, and Clarke’s about to reply when a loud thump echoes to their left.

They freeze immediately. “What the fuck,” breathes Clarke, very quiet, and then a crate comes flying at their heads.

“Left!” barks Bellamy, and her back hits the wall just as he starts firing. There’s a hulking shape in front of them, impossible to make out clearly in the dark; she still plants her feet and shoots at it, caution be damned. There’s screaming, sharp and piercing, and the metallic taste of panic coats her tongue as she nearly empties her clip.

There are a few heart-stopping seconds before it reaches the window where Clarke’s sure it’s been hit, maybe fatally. But then it’s finally standing in silver starlight and she can make out a writhing mass of scarred flesh, four pairs of rage-filled eyes swinging eagerly between the three of them with anticipation. One of them has got a brutal length of steel pipe. The other three clutch knives. 

“Fuck,” Miller says, thin with horror. “Clarke, we’ve got to run - Bellamy! Retreat!” Then his hand is a vise around her wrist and they’re sprinting, Bellamy hot on their heels.

“Reavers,” she gasps, fear hot and choking in her chest. Their shrieks are earsplitting behind them. She nearly trips over the stairs in her rush down, skidding to a halt as she approaches the mess hall again.

_ “What?” _ snaps Bellamy, shoving at her shoulder, but she slams him to the side just as a jagged table leg flies toward them from another pair of Reavers up ahead. 

“Fuck,” Miller says again, with feeling, and Clarke takes careful aim before shooting. 

One Reaver lurches back at the impact, fresh blood dribbling down its shoulder, but gets right back up with a snarl.  _ They can’t feel anything, _ goes the old ghost story.  _ Not human anymore, not after staring into space for so long. Nothing but animals, hungry for human flesh _ . 

“On your six,” shouts Bellamy, and she feels his back press against her own as he fires again at the four chasing them. Miller’s rifle is a steady, low response to the high-pitched screaming. One horrible voice abruptly gargles to a halt behind her, but she doesn’t have time to look: the one she shot is now sprinting toward her, murder in its eyes as it stretches its hands out for her throat.

Clarke, heart thundering in her ears, takes aim again. The Reaver’s just five feet away when she shoots it clean through an eye. Its body thuds against the ground, limp. 

Its companion screams a challenge and snaps a wicked length of thick metal chain toward her, the links smashing into the door frame just inches from her head. She fires again in response, bullet embedding itself into its thigh. The nose of Miller’s rifle enters her peripheral vision a second before it fires, several rounds burrowing into its mark. Still, it advances, and this time the chain slams into her ribcage. 

She’s knocked into the wall, choking on nothing as white-hot fire licks up her side. “Clarke!” she hears Miller shout, and she returns to her body to find herself on her back gasping for air, her pistol several feet away beneath a smashed table.  _ I better be the only one down,  _ she thinks grimly, and then,  _ Definitely a broken rib. _

Bellamy’s gun is still loud and persistent to her right, thank God. She crawls over to the heap of abandoned furniture near the side of the room to retrieve her own weapon. The Reaver looks torn now, gaze whipping between her and Miller, who is also still firing, but it must decide she makes a weaker target because it starts in her direction. A curious mix of fear and exasperation knots in her stomach as she watches it advance, even as Miller’s bullets find purchase in its back. 

“You bastard,” she mutters, under its godawful screeching, and there’s one more glint of steel before she’s fired a bullet into its skull. 

Blood and shattered bone spatter everywhere. Or at least, she assumes it does; it feels like a chunk of her head has been ripped off, somewhere near the temple, and it’s all she can do to grasp at consciousness. There’s some distant shouting, unintelligible; she feels her body sink down onto a cold floor. Time stretches, thin and slippery.

“ - Clarke,” someone yells, sudden, and a hand is clutching her shoulder. 

_ Get off,  _ she wants to say, irritable.  _ Can’t you see I’m sleeping? _

“Clarke, Jesus Christ,” the voice says, and the strange banging in the background finally ends. “Fuck, stay awake. Miller!”

She’s not inclined to listen given the heaviness of her eyelids. She lets them drift shut. “Staunch the bleeding,” says a different voice, and then there’s some incredibly uncomfortable jostling that occurs behind her head until she lets go of her thoughts for a while.

“ - not like this,” she hears, when she tunes in for the last time. “Clarke, if you die like this I won’t forgive you, I swear to God, after everything we’ve been through. I love you, Clarke,  _ please - “ _

_ I’d recognize that voice if it didn’t sound so scared, _ she thinks, hazy, and then it’s finally quiet.

*

As always, it’s the beeping of the heart monitor that wrenches her back to consciousness. She lies there with her eyes closed for a few more moments anyway, mind curiously blank as exhaustion threatens to pull her under again. Then, taking a deep breath, she peels back her eyelids. 

She squints against the familiar blue lights of their ship infirmary. 

It’s hard to remember what exactly got her here, but there’s a pounding in her head that she suspects is from more than just drink. There doesn’t seem to be anyone in her immediate line of vision, which is concerning; she makes to go find someone.

A sharp tug of pain at her ribs yanks a gasp out of her instead, one that has the curious weight in her lap shooting upright.

“Thank fuck,” breathes Bellamy, and she blinks at him. 

“What?” she croaks.

He’s still in his spacewalk suit, crammed into the tiny infirmary chair she knows he loathes. His curls are half-flattened from where, she now realizes, he’d fallen asleep slumped over her legs.

“I was so fucking scared,” he says, and her hand curls around his without her meaning to do it.

“What happened?”

“It was the chain,” he says, and she can tell it’s costing him effort. “It slammed into you pretty hard. Concussion, plus a couple broken ribs. Monty says bed rest for a few weeks.”

“No,” she says automatically, before a particularly vicious bolt of pain clamps round her head. “Maybe,” she allows, and his laugh is unsteady.

“I -  _ we  _ thought you were going to die, the least you can do is take it easy for a couple days,” he tells her, and it’s definitely not a joke. She frowns, trying to piece together what she remembers.

“You got me off the Reaver ship.”

“Miller helped.”

“And you said you love me.”

He freezes, and  _ fuck _ . She wonders if she can blame pain meds for this. “Clarke - “

“It’s fine,” she interrupts. She’s battered and bruised enough; if Bellamy breaks her heart now, she’ll close her eyes and refuse to open them ever again. “It’s fine. I know it was a life or death scenario.”

“Clarke - “

“Emotions run high, I get it. I mean, we’ve been through a lot together, I know you care about me - “

_ “Clarke - “ _

“I guess I just thought I was being more subtle,” she concludes, unable to help herself.

There’s one second of truly horrible silence before his grip tightens around her hand. “Subtle about what?” he asks, and she finally looks up at him.

“I love you,” she says, and it feels like watching a white flag unfurl. “I’ve loved you since before I knew I did.”

His gaze is hot on her own, something like relief crashing down behind his eyes. “Thank fuck,” he repeats, and Clarke has barely a second to think about how beautiful he looks like this, half-asleep and stressed out and hers, before he’s kissing her.

*

“It’s a choice between the compression coil and non-dehydrated food,” says Bellamy a few days later, holding up the bag of credits they’ve just earned. The rest of their crew squints up at him from under the punishing Neptune VI sun.

“Thank you,” says Raven, neatly scooping the money out from his hands; she flips the bird at their general outcry. “You’ll all be thanking me later when you’re still breathing fucking oxygen.”

“I’d rather be dead than eat another powdered tofu kit,” grumbles Jasper.

“We’ve got two hours until we ship off for our next job,” Clarke says, which gets everyone’s attention again. “I don’t want to hear about a single fight once we’re back on board. And if you end up in jail, you’re staying there.”

“Yes Mom,” drawls Octavia before swanning away towards the nearest bar. Miller follows her with a snort. Raven disappears immediately, muttering about some good parts shop on the edge of town, while Jasper and Monty do their best to look innocent as they inch towards a shop advertising fireworks.

Bellamy pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’re gonna get blown into space as soon as we take off, aren’t we?”

“Probably,” she replies, before hitting a button on the console. The loading bay doors start to groan shut.

“What are you doing?”

She turns around to look at him. The sunlight’s falling around his shoulders like gold. There’s a smudge of grease on his shirt from when he’d been talking repairs with Raven, and his hair getting way too long again. She’s going to have to trim it for him soon. “I said two hours,” she says. “That’s probably enough time to have sex  _ and _ get first dibs on whatever fresh food we still have left, right?”

He laughs like it’s been startled out of him. “Food first,” he says, and she knows her grin is too big for her face, but she can’t rein it in. 

“Well yeah, obviously,” she replies, and reaches for his hand.


End file.
